For the Love of a Brother
by JustValiant1717
Summary: King Edmund the Just would gladly walk through the valley of the shadow of death for the honor of his sister, the Queen Susan, but he would also turn away from the Country where everlasting peace, love, and happiness reign - if it meant she won't be left alone in her sorrow. Minor HHB Su and Ed references if you squint. Last Battle AU.
1. Chapter 1

This probably isn't a good idea since I still have **King and Lionheart** as a WIP, and if you're following that story you know I'm the absolute _worst_ when it comes to updating. But this little story (yes, it will be a "little story" in that I plan to finish it around five chapters - maybe _less_ ) begged to be written on my phone's Journal during my three-hour commute back to my province. Also, Edmund's devotion to his sister and Queen, and his absolute willingness to die for her honor in _Horse and His Boy_ touched my heart in ways I couldn't describe when I recently revisited the Focus on the Family radio drama adaptation of HHB (though the voice actor for Edmund leaves a lot to be desired, I'm afraid), so I told myself that I _need_ to call that poignant moment of brotherly love to mind in one of my stories someday.

I promise to get back to Lionheart as soon as possible (if anyone is still interested, that is) - preferably when I'm not in such a _dour_ state of mind that I seem to be in the mood for only dark, borderline-depressing stories and music (I am listening to _Land of All_ by _Woodkid_ as I write this note, which is probably written under the definition of "dour" in the dictionary, and I can't stop - neither do I want to).

No beta, and as I have said, I wrote everything using the Journal application on my phone, so please bear with any grammatical/structural errors. Also, I just plain SUCK at tenses, so if at some point the narrator's tenses become a disorienting mess of past-present-present-past or something similar, please do forgive a sad, brooding scatterbrain like me.

All right. Please enjoy (or perhaps not). Also, kindly let me know if I should stop this rot, or see it through the [bittersweet] end.

-oOo-

 **FOR THE LOVE OF A BROTHER**

Chapter 1

There is something oddly familiar about this.

Death.

The death of people I love.

I don't understand how it can be familiar. I have lived through war—survived it by the skin of my teeth, more like, during the Blitz. I have seen deaths on the paper; have heard the cries of widowed women and children on the radio. I know death is real.

But it should not be _this_ real—like some estranged, traitorous friend I could do without reconciling with ever again.

I tell myself that I'm not thinking right—that whatever I feel to be familiar so as to be palpable is merely a result of seeing strangers lower my family to the cold, damp Finchley soil. In my mind I curse at the skies, and then at England, for being so deprived of sunshine that there is no light upon my loved ones for this one final time. As if they are not to spend the rest of who knows how long down there.

So cold. So dark. So utterly without life.

I shake my head mentally, or perhaps physically—I don't really care either way—and thank the skies instead for crying on my behalf. I didn't cry the first time I'd heard the news. I haven't cried since. Tears are for people who deserve forgiveness, and I do not deserve an ounce of mercy for my decision. Perhaps I would cry after _he_ has dispensed all his anger on me. _That_ is something I truly deserve.

Mum's and dad's caskets are the first to hit the earth with a sickening finality, the sound more harrowing than bombs exploding round our house when the Germans had their fun with the _Luftwaffe_. I try to conjure mum's lullaby, or dad's voice when he called me " _the most beautiful young woman I have ever seen_ ," just to dispel the echo of that final sound. No such remembered sounds come to console me.

They work on lowering Peter and Lucy next, with Lucy getting down in that abyss faster, probably because of her weight (and the fact that there was not much of her left to begin with). Again I try to remember her voice before her casket could touch ground, and I succeed, postponing for now the need to reason why I seem to have more memories of her than of our parents.

I could hear her laughter, the kind that reminds me of bubbling spring water after a long trek in the desert. So sweet, so pure, and overflowing with life. I remember her face, that beautiful young face with a smile so bright it put the sun to shame. Above all I remember her love—for our families and friends, animals and nature, and for everything that had breath. I remember her thin yet strong arms wrapped around me while I was at the mercy of my own frail heart, how she would say, _"It will be all right, Susan._ Aslan _will help us_."

I rub my arms as if burned by the memory of that embrace... of those _words_. Whoever or whatever He was, real or childish imaginings, _He_ did not help her. I seethe at the sound of that _name_. I am chasing tendrils of moments spent with my sister. I do _not_ need to hear the name.

The only consolation is that I got too distracted to hear Lucy's casket hit the ground.

Too soon. I spoke (thought) too soon. Peter's casket gives a thud much louder than anyone else's. Apparently someone has made an error with the mechanism used to lower the box. I know I ought to be furious at the fool who could not even lay my brother down in peace; instead I focus all of my emotions in remembering my older brother.

Just as it is with Lucy, the memories come with ease. I remember the handsome, regal timbre of his voice, his fondness for suffocating us with his hugs and annoying us (Edmund, especially) with his kisses, the feeling of safety and security his mere presence radiated even at rest, his calm and cool intellect in the face of the most daunting tasks, his endearing bossiness when he gave orders as the High Ki-

"Aslan _bless and keep you, Su, until Edmund and I return_."

 _That_ name. That _horrible, blasted_ name. That wretched _deserter_ whose name I will never-

 _Edmund..._

Oh, mercy, how I _need_ Edmund here to hold me!

No, Susan. Don't be daft. It's the mercy of mercies that he isn't here. Otherwise he would be one of the bodies you will be burying today. He isn't gone. He is alive.

Deeply unconscious and fevered from injuries sustained in the accident that claimed everyone's life, but alive and would soon be awake.

 _"Barring any serious complication or worsening of the infection."_

No, there is no need to think about what the doctor said. He _will_ live. He _will_ heal. Otherwise I will kill him for surviving such a tragedy, only to succumb to fever.

Yes, he will live... to hear that his sister had buried his father, mother, and two siblings while he struggled for every breath for a chance to see them. He will live to know that she didn't even let him say goodbye... to the father and mother he honored and loved with every beat of his heart, the younger sister he would have protected all the days of his life, and the older brother who was and always will be the better half of his soul.

But he needn't fret, for he still has his cold, heartless, wet blanket of an older sister with him. The sister who could not support the flight of fancy that sent everyone he loved literally crashing to their death.

I squeeze the thorn-filled stems of the white roses in my hands, relishing every puncture on my skin and the way blood seeps between my fingers.

By the time I lay the flowers on their individual headstones, even the petals are covered in blood.

 _Liam Peter Pevensie_

 _Helen Katherine Pevensie_

 _Peter Alexander Pevensie_

 _Lucy Beatrice Pevensie_

Tears fall from my eyes to mingle with the blood on the rose meant for Lucy's headstone. She has always loved... _had_ always loved flowers, so I would always put some in the vase in her room. It saddened her to see a wilted petal, or any condition that made the flowers less than healthy.

I am sorry, Lucy. I am sorry, Peter. Mum. Dad. Not even the rain could wash away the mess I've made of my final offering to you. I am so sorry... for all the _terrible_ things I did... for the _worthless_ daughter and sister that I was.

I am sorry, Edmund, for _this_ terrible thing I have done, and for the mess that will become of your life with only me in it.

-oOo-

I may be just the slightest bit depressed at the moment - as you can probably tell from this Tragedy-Fest of a chapter. Reviews might perk me up a bit, thought. ;-)

Thanks for taking the time to read. All glory to our G-D Most High!


	2. Chapter 2

You might think, _Hey! She's on a roll today!_ But truly, I am not. I don't want to give any of you false hopes as to the frequency of my updates. This chapter just happened to sit finished yet untouched in my hard drive for _months_ because I hadn't (haven't) the heart or the motivation to do much else but mope and work myself into an emotional wreck these days. As I've mentioned in my **King and Lionheart** update (or rather, my co-author's update, as she's the lovely person who did _all_ the work), my head (and I guess both heart and soul as well) isn't screwed on right at the moment and hasn't been for a good while now, and I feel that it _will_ show strongly in this story. Regardless, I hope you still find something... ugh.. enjoyable about it, I guess...

That said, thank you, thank you, THANK YOU to all who read and reviewed! I hope you all know how much I treasure you and your kind words! May the Lord bless and keep you all, and may He give you the Peace that I seek for myself at the moment. I'll strive to be a better person despite everything, so that I may be a better author and serve you all better in the future.

-oOo-

Even though I knew she would be here, I still startle upon seeing Aunt Alberta fawning over my still sleeping brother. She sits on a chair by Edmund's bed, dabbing his face with a cool washcloth with one hand while the other traces his faintly stubbled jaw – almost as if he was her son.

So tender, so intent is she in her ministrations that she doesn't notice me standing at my brother's door. I try to wrack my brain for a time when Aunt has shown him (or _any_ of us, really) this much fondness. Ironically, I remember her squeezing a five-year-old Edmund's jaw as she spoke directly into his face, hissing threats if he ever made her precious son—her _perfect_ little Eustace—upset again.

I clear my throat, not the least bit contrite when she startles and places a hand on her chest.

"Susan, dear, you frightened me!" She drapes the washcloth on the rim of a nearby basin. "How was the burial?"

 _As delightful as the one you'd had for Eustace, lovely of you to ask_. "Cold and wet, as is usual. How is Edmund?"

"I'm truly sorry I couldn't come, Susan. I had to bury my… m-my only son two days ago. I want to make sure my nephew—"

"How is Edmund?" I repeat coldly, even though there is a painful stirring in my chest watching her explain herself, her eyes glistening with tears.

She sighs, unfazed by my cruel tone. "He had a temperature earlier, but it's down quite a lot now. I changed the dressing on his knee about two hours ago. It isn't seeping anymore, and the wound itself is looking much better."

I nod, mildly pleased with her answer. "Did he wake at all today?"

She shakes her head, a sad smile pulling the corners of her lips. "I'm sorry, darling."

 _Darling_. I've always been the pretty lass who's better off marrying a rich American businessman in her eyes, but never her 'darling'.

She goes back to brushing Edmund's jawline with her fingers.

"I'm sorry, Aunt Alberta, but why are you doing this?"

"Susan, darling, I don't understa—"

"I am _not_ your darling."

She sighs again, finally sounding aggravated. "I _know_ I haven't been the kindest aunt to any of you, Susan. You looked in utter disbelief when I said I'd watch over Edmund while you... while you _took care_ of your family. But child, when Edmund and Lucy came to live with us, they... they gave me back my son."

She chokes on a sob and brushes her fingers against Edmund's face again. It takes everything within me not to pry her fingers off.

"Eustace is... _was_..." she takes her hand away from my brother's face to stifle another sob. "Eustace was a hateful, hateful boy. He cared for only himself and couldn't care less for Harold or me. But when Lucy and Edmund came, when they showed him care and friendship like only loving siblings could, he... _changed_. Drastically. It was if God gave him a new heart. As if your brother and sister had shown him a new world from which he would return, changed for the better."

I feel myself grow warm and pale in the face all at once _. Gave Eustace a new heart_? _A new world that changed him for the better_? I grab a fistful of my skirt, feeling the slight quivering of my legs.

 _Oh, Susan, it was the most beautiful adventure! We sailed all the way to Aslan's Country! And cousin Eustace was with us! Caspian was there, too, and he almost gave up his kingship for—_

I close my eyes and shake off the memory of Lucy's voice. In the end, real or not, it only got her and Peter killed. Poor Eustace would probably have been better off not being involved in this game (this _quest_ —someone inside me whispers). Oh, Aunt Alberta, you do not understand what it is you are thanking my siblings for.

I unclench my fists and stalk towards the bed. "Thank you for your kindness and all your help, Aunt Alberta. I would like to be alone with my brother now."

"Susan—"

"Please." I don't recognize the broken, lifeless voice that issues from my throat. I've always been called soft (gentle, a voice within me amends once more), but I have never sounded this way. I am so, so tired, I feel an irrational pang of jealousy over Edmund's unconscious state. To be lost in the abyss, senseless and thoughtless. It must be pure bliss.

Unbidden, a cold, sharp aching settles in my chest, accompanied by the uncanny sensation that makes one think: _this has happened before; I have felt this way before_. And then, all at once, a sordid vision takes my mind by storm. Lucy and I, sitting with abandon upon a cold, unforgiving stone table, our arms wrapped around the body of a dead lion. _Sadness._ So much of it. The kind that makes one feel as if nothing will ever happen again. My lips move. " _He must have known what he was doing."_

"NO!" I cover my eyes, my ears – my hands alternating frantically between them in confusion and horror. When I can open my eyes without wincing in discomfort, I see Aunt Alberta looking pale and shaken by my sudden breakdown. She puts her arms around me in a comforting embrace and for a moment, I allow it. I'm not sure whether it is the smell of her rose perfume—so reminiscent of the one Mum used to wear—or the smattering of freckles on her neck that formed the "Tiny Dipper" constellation also found on Lucy's, so visible from this angle, but I try to shake her off as fiercely as I can. "Please, please! Won't you just leave me alone, Aunt Alberta?"

She finally does, sobbing freely and slamming Edmund's door shut in her haste to run away from my poisonous countenance.

I let out loud, violent sobs of my own and collapse onto Edmund, my head coming to rest above his chest. His heart beats strong and steady for someone so quiet and lifeless. My own swells with relief, and then disgust.

Relief, for he remains with me still.

Disgust, for thinking within the same breath what a shame it is that he still lives. What good is it to live, after all, if he were to be stuck with one such as me?

* * *

"Why won't you talk?" I look up at Lucy, languid and content to rest my head on her lap as I lay sprawled on the grass, her tiny fingers kneading my scalp. She smiles but maintains her silence. I pout and look up even higher at Peter who's sitting on a branch of the apple tree shading us from the sun, its shimmering golden leaves raining gently down on Lucy and me. Peter takes a noisy bite of the silver apple in his hand and makes even noisier chewing sounds, though just like my tight-lipped little sister, he refuses to produce anything that approaches a word, or a vowel, even.

"Are you mad at me?" I ask, searching their faces for anything that will tell me… well… _anything_. They smile at the same time, the golden apple leaves reflected in their clear blue eyes creating the most mesmerizing effect. It's beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, that I could just sleep here, head pillowed on my sister's lap, and forget that they are not talking to me. Forget that _something_ seems amiss. Forget that _someone_ seems to be missing.

I sit upright in a flash, surveying my surroundings of golden trees, fresh green grass, and clear blue sky as far as the eye can see. The leaves fall all around us in earnest now, like snow on a Christmas day.

Snow. Cold. _Someone_ hates the cold.

 _Brother_. My brother. Peter.

 _No_ , not Peter.

 _Edmund._

"Where's Edmund?" I grasp the sleeves of Lucy's regal lilac dress. "Where's Edmund, Lu?"

Again, silence. My temper suddenly flares at this. I grasp Lucy tighter, perhaps to the point of discomfort (to which she has no reaction). The seventh time I repeat my litany of " _Where's Edmund? Please, where's Edmund?_ ", she pries my hands off her shoulders and wraps my clenched fist in hers, stroking my knuckles gently, lovingly. Finally, her lips move, her mouth opens, and she speaks. But it's not her voice I hear. It isn't even the voice of a girl.

"Wake up, Susan. I'm here. I'm here."

* * *

The moment shatters like glass and I awake in Edmund's room. I must have bent over his bed in exhaustion, and then fallen asleep. I try to sit upright, only to feel the hand of my outstretched arm being stroked lovingly by someone. I look up...

And _there_ he is. My brother. My baby brother. The only one I have left in this world. He smiles softly, the warm, bright look upon his face a contrast to the cold exhaustion that seems to have seeped in my bones. I can only stare, emotions of an entire lifetime (and at least two others that I would _not_ acknowledge) squeezing its way into my heart. "I'm _here_ , Susan."

Despite my self-loathing, I permit myself the sheer pleasure of throwing my arms around Edmund Pevensie. I sob with all the ache and bitterness I've been suppressing from the day of the accident to the funeral of all but _one_ of my family. Like Lucy and Peter did in my dream, he says nothing, his hands coming to rest on my back, sliding up and down it gently to caress and comfort. And then... _Lucy, Peter_...

I spring away from him as if repelled by a pungent scent, all traces of happiness and relief dissipating from my countenance. He looks at me, that soft smile still on his face. He looks... _well_. Skin almost pearlescent instead of its sickly gray-white, his eyes clear liquid amber. Truly, the only sign that he has been ill are the quickly fading scratches and pale green and yellow bruises on his face and neck, and his ever insubstantial weight that seems to have diminished even more as he slept, unfed and undernourished for days.

How can this be, when he has spent four days raging with fever? Didn't Aunt Alberta say that he still had a temperature this morning? A 'systemic infection', the doctor called it. How, then, can a person barely risen from a fatal systemic infection look almost... _otherworldly_?

I clear my throat awkwardly, catching myself staring at him for too long. I press a tentative hand on his forehead to check for fever. He is cool as stone. "How... H-How are you feeling?"

He gives a slight shrug of his shoulders. "My knee's hurting something wicked. Other than that, never better."

I lift the blanket covering his legs and wince in sympathy. His right knee, which has been injured since after a game of rugby at school, seems to have taken the brunt of the accident. The kneecap is completely shattered, and when (albeit the doctor used 'if') he wakes, there's no telling when he might be allowed to put pressure on his right leg again. " _A limp is almost guaranteed_ if _he pulls through._ "

I pull the blanket back over his legs and murmur about bringing him some tea. He nods, a look of sweet serenity settles on his face as I close his bedroom door behind me.

Oh, _Heavens_ , he must think Lucy and Peter are somewhere in the house, recuperating in their respective rooms just like him.

When I return with the promised tea and some digestives, he takes the tea and tin of biscuits and sets them on the nightstand. His hands grasp for mine next, a look of deep sorrow in his eyes. My heart plummets to my feet. Edmund, bright young man that he is, required only the short space of time it took to make tea to put two and two together. He _knows_. About our brother Our sister. Mum. Dad.

"I'm sorry, Su—"

"I'm sorry, Ed—"

We laugh softly—a broken, _mirthless_ sound—for cutting each other off. I motion for him to continue with what he has to say first. Although his innate chivalry might have flared at this notion, he nods gratefully and apologises one more time.

"I'm sorry, Su. I'm so sorry you had to go through everything alone. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you. Burying... e _veryone_... I wanted to be there for you. Truly, I did. But I was selfish. I thought about staying, Su. By Aslan, I _did_! I would have left you alone because everything was _so_ beautiful there! So beautiful that anything you might have thought as magnificent in this world pales _dreadfully_ in comparison! And everyone was there. Everyone we ever knew and _loved_. Mr. Tumnus, Mr. and Mrs. Beaver, Oreius, Caspian, Reep, Phillip-"

My mind spins and lightheadedness nearly knocks me over, but I steel myself to cut him off. "What... what in mercy's name are you _raving_ about?"

He looks at me as if I have just run his chest through with a dagger, but I don't care two-pence for it.

What betrayal is _this_? If there really is a Higher Power, a Spirit out there who has taken pity upon me, why would He return my brother to me, hale and whole as it looks, but raving like a lunatic—no!—madder than _ever_?

"Susan, please, listen to me—"

"It's just a game, Edmund. Some silly game we made up to get through the war. Some _rubbish_ that killed our entire family and that poor, gullible Jill Pole and—"

Edmund screams "NO!" so hard and loud I feel the volume of it slam against my chest. He closes his eyes for a moment and takes several deep breaths. "No," he says again, this time kind and tender. _Pleading_.

"I was there, Susan. I was _there_ —in Aslan's country—a most wonderful place you can scarcely imagine. Aslan asked me—gave me a choice—stay in His Country with everyone... or return to you. I didn't die upon impact like Lucy and Peter… you see. Our _idiot_ of a brother made sure _he_ took the full brunt. I could come back to my body, heal, and spend the rest of my days down here, so when our time comes, I can take you there with me – to be with everyone again. I... I chose _you_. There was a moment when I thought—I wouldn't choose you—that I would put myself before any of you _again_ \- but I did and I – I don't regret it."

I look at him blankly for a good while (his breathing laboured from the passion with which he gave his speech, it seems) feeling everything and nothing all at once, my mind close to bursting and my heart hollowing out. The next words I speak are both true and untrue.

"Whatever you believe you had done for me, I wish you _hadn't_."

I wish you hadn't given up the peace and delight of your fantasies. I wish you had died. I am grateful you live. I don't deserve you. I deserve you – after _everything_ I've been through. I believe you. I believe you have been to _Heaven_. _Aslan's Country_ could be one and the same place as Heaven… couldn't it? " _In your world, I have another name. You must learn to know me by it_." It doesn't matter. It _doesn't_ matter. You shouldn't have done it. You shouldn't have done it. _I wish you hadn't_.

He looks at me once more, this time as if I'd twisted the blade I had plunged into him earlier. "You _don't_ mean that, Su. You don't..."

I _don't._ Despite my righteous hatred of myself, I love my brother. I need him.

But he doesn't need _me_. In the end, the reality or unreality of the Very Special Place he saw is pointless. Oblivion. The Void. Wonderland. _Anything_ would have been better than life with me.

"I do, Edmund. I do mean every word."


End file.
